The Shield and Spear branch in The Fang stood like a citadel among the crowded streets, tall walls of pale stone rising with sharp corners and narrow windows. Its gates bore twin carvings — a shield and a spear — polished so often they gleamed under the sun. To a passerby, it might look like a knightly garrison, an Order sworn to noble vows.
Uniformed guards stood at attention on either side of the entrance, breastplates buffed and spears leveled with drilled precision. Banners of deep green hung down from the battlements, stitched with the emblem of a shield behind a spear. From the outside, everything breathed authority and discipline, like a force dedicated to justice.
But stepping inside revealed the truth. The marble floor was marked with boot scuffs, and mercenaries lounged against the walls in polished armor that was more for show than uniformity. The great hall doubled as both recruitment ground and tavern — long benches filled with armored men and women, mugs clashing while coin purses exchanged hands.
Behind the veneer of knightly decorum, deals were struck in whispers, prices argued like traders at market. A gilded board listed current contracts: guarding caravans, hunting beasts, even "special" assignments where no questions were asked. Above it, a motto carved in stone read:
"Strength for Hire, Honor in Coin."
Even here, far from their headquarters, the Shield and Spear carried themselves like an Order of knights — but everyone who passed through their doors knew what they truly were: mercenaries dressed in discipline.
The men Kazel had shooed away hurried through the stone archway of the Shield and Spear building, the clamor of mercenaries in the hall briefly drowning their frantic footsteps. They didn't even pause by the contract board or the jeering mercs who mocked their pale faces. Their armor clinked in rhythm as they cut straight across the hall and up the stairway toward the second floor, where the air grew quieter, heavier with authority.
They stopped before a reinforced oak door banded with iron. A brass plate read:
"Captain's Office."
With trembling knuckles, one of them knocked.
Inside, the office was dim, yet orderly. Maps of the Fang and the surrounding wildlands lined the walls, while a rack of spears and shields gleamed in neat display. Behind a wide desk sat the captain's chair, empty for now — but the true pressure in the room came from the two figures already standing there.
They were clad in immaculate white armor, polished until it shone like silver under the lantern light. Crests of the Shield and Spear were etched across their breastplates. Their very presence seemed to wash the room of all tavern-stink and mercenary laxness; these were not common sellswords, but the Order's "white knights" — elite enforcers, famed for their ruthlessness in carrying out the guild's will.
One leaned against the desk with arms crossed, helm resting under his arm, his sharp features twisted with mild disdain. The other stood ramrod straight, like a statue ready to march into battle at a word.
The door creaked open, and the nervous men stepped inside, kneeling almost instinctively.
"Captain… we bring news."
The words faltered under the cold, watchful eyes of the white knights.
The two captains had just risen from their seats when the doors of the Shield and Spear branch slammed open.
The sound reverberated like thunder.
Every head in the hall snapped toward the entrance. Tankards froze mid-air. A die bounced and clattered to the floor, forgotten. Even the flames of the lanterns seemed to lean back from the sudden weight pressing into the room.
A figure stood framed against the dying light of The Fang—Kazel.
He didn't march in; he strode with that same casual gait that unsettled men more than the roar of a beast. His eyes gleamed ice-blue, a cruel smirk cutting across his face as if he had walked into his own house.
The mercenaries who had just returned from his gate went white, stumbling backward, nearly tripping over their own boots. One dropped his helmet with a hollow clang that rang like a bell of dread.
The hall's tension twisted into something primal—every mercenary's instinct screamed danger, yet no one moved first. Hands hovered near hilts, knuckles tightening on spear shafts, but none dared draw.
Up on the balcony, the two captains in white armor stiffened. The older one's lips peeled into a sharp grin, though his eyes narrowed. The other's hand brushed the pommel of his sword, unreadable behind his steel visor.
Kazel's gaze rose to meet them, and the hall seemed to shrink. His smirk widened, voice cutting through the silence like a blade:
"So this is where the mutts cower."
The insult cracked the room. Some mercenaries surged half a step forward, only to be stopped cold by the suffocating pressure pouring off him. The weaker men felt their knees buckle; a few even swayed as if the air itself had turned too heavy to breathe.
Kazel spread his arms lazily, as though welcoming them into his own den.
"Well?" he sneered, his voice echoing against stone."Didn't you come barking at my gate? I've brought myself to yours. Now—who among you will bite?"
Kazel scanned the room. "No one?" Then his eyes locked onto the second floor the moment he stepped inside. His boots echoed against the polished stone, steady and unhurried, yet each step was a drumbeat of menace. The smirk on his face deepened with every stride.
At the front desk, the receptionist—barely more than a girl—rose to her feet, voice quivering as she tried to summon her training."S-Sir, would you like to ma—"
"Sit down."
Kazel didn't even look at her. The words were flung like a commandment, cold and final.
Her throat snapped shut. She dropped back into her chair so quickly it nearly screeched across the floor.
"HAPPY TO OBLIGE!" she squeaked, her spine straightening until she looked carved from iron, fingers pressed flat against the desk as if anchoring herself against a storm.
The hall fell utterly silent again, mercenaries watching as Kazel ascended the stairs, step by step, like an executioner walking toward the gallows—not his own, but theirs.
On the second floor, Kazel found the same mob of armored men who had come to his gates. The moment his figure appeared, their bravado crumbled; instinct guided them more than reason. One by one, boots shuffled back, and a path opened in silence, like prey parting for a predator.
Kazel's gaze cut straight through the line until it rested on the two white knights seated at the far end. He stopped before them, his smirk coiled with contempt.
"Your underlings," Kazel said, his voice low yet filling the hall, "are creating a ruckus at my home."
The first white knight quickly raised his hand, voice trembling between diplomacy and fear."I assure you this is a misunderstanding."
"Is that so?" Kazel tilted his head, blue eyes narrowing.
"Yes," the second one chimed in, forcing calm. "They are merely… wanting to get to know you."
Kazel's smirk widened into a dangerous curve."Don't go political on me."
Before either knight could respond, a new voice cut through the air—distinct, cold, commanding."What is going on here?"
Every knight in the room turned. Even the white knights rose from their seats.
Behind Kazel, a figure had appeared: a black knight, clad in armor dark as charred steel, helm tucked under his arm. His presence was heavy, suffocating—less like a man, more like a walking judgment.
The mob, once trembling, now dropped their eyes in reverence.
"Who are you?" Kazel asked, voice sharp yet casual, as though the weight of the black knight's presence were nothing more than a breeze.
"I am the leader of this Order—Okhist," the knight replied, his tone calm but resonant, carrying through the chamber like the clang of steel. "Well met, young master of the Immortal Sect."
"You know me then," Kazel said, his smirk unfading.
"Everyone here knows," Okhist answered without hesitation, his dark gaze sweeping over the hall. The mob of armored men lowered their heads, ashamed, as though the knight's very words pressed down on them.
"Then why," Kazel's tone hardened, each syllable deliberate, "are your underlings' underlings creating a ruckus at my home?"
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the scrape of gauntlets as Okhist slowly turned his head. His eyes locked on the two white knights, then slid across the cowering mob.
"…Is this true?" Okhist asked, his voice colder now, with the weight of judgment.
"It was a misunderstanding, leader," one of the white knights stammered, bowing his head.
Okhist's hand flexed against the helm under his arm, the leather creaking. "A misunderstanding?" he repeated, quiet enough to draw sweat down the spines of the men behind him. "Or incompetence?"
The mob froze, afraid to breathe.
And yet, in the midst of it all, Kazel only chuckled.
Okhist's gaze lingered on the trembling mob. His presence alone felt suffocating, as though the hall itself dared not move under his shadow. Then—without raising his voice—he spoke.
"Kneel."
The command cracked through the air like a whip. Every man behind the two white knights dropped to the ground in unison, their armor clattering against the polished floor.
"You've shamed this Order. You've insulted me, and worse—you've insulted a guest of the Immortal Sect," Okhist said, each word slow and deliberate. He lifted his gauntleted hand and clenched it into a fist.
The white knights flinched. They knew what was coming.
"Fifty lashes," Okhist decreed. "For every man who dared disturb his household. As for you two—" his gaze turned to the white knights, sharp as a drawn blade, "—you will receive double."
Gasps rippled through the hall, but no one dared protest. The mob's faces went pale; they knew mercy wasn't coming.
Okhist finally shifted, turning his back to them as though they were already dead men. His attention fell upon Kazel once more. Unlike the others, his tone softened—not with weakness, but with respect.
"Such incompetence deserves punishment. But your time has already been wasted, and your peace disturbed. That, I cannot overlook."
He gestured toward the grand stairs leading upward.
"Come, young master. Let us speak in my office. We will discuss how this Order will properly compensate you for such a… rude experience."
The mob on the floor did not dare move. Every eye followed Kazel, awaiting whether he would take the seat of judgment offered to him.